


Simmer and Sear

by JCMorrigan



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Horror, I JUST got done with this episode, I am a horror writer, I haven't even finished this show, I literally just wanted to write the in-between of how he killed the stepsibs, I swear I'm not into vore, I'm just a morbid morbid woman, M/M, Murder, Possible dubcon?, Seduction, Set during 2x17, Who has a villain problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrigan/pseuds/JCMorrigan
Summary: Revenge is a dish best served warm, actually.
Relationships: (sort of) - Relationship, Oswald Cobblepot/Charles Van Dahl
Kudos: 9





	Simmer and Sear

**Author's Note:**

> The way Oswald kills Grace in 2x17 is absolutely perfect and I, as a horror enthusiast, felt compelled to go back and flesh out the murders that led up to it.
> 
> My reputation may end up in the trash after this because this might be the single most disturbing fic on my profile. Trigger warning for everything

He knows Sasha will be more difficult, so he begins with her.

The idea is simple. There’s some sherry left in the decanter. The weapon that killed Elijah will kill that thing that called itself his daughter and shared none of his blood. This might be the only liquid they ever will share, in fact.

He’s not sure he’s ready for the knife yet. Strange’s work has been thorough. Thinking about blades still makes him a little nauseous, like he might lose his nerve and his lunch if he sees one shimmer. (The roast will be a dry run, he’s decided, because meat is meat.) But the poison? He’s already used it on the dog, meaning he’s stronger than Strange’s will.

He begins by visiting Sasha’s room as she’s fussing with her hair. On a delicate silver tray, an even more delicate cupcake, marbled vanilla and chocolate dough with the most meticulous purple icing he could muster.

“I brought you a treat,” he says, his tone still meek. Innocent. She won’t suspect.

“Hm?” She looks to him, then wrinkles her nose.

“You were right,” he told her. “About everything. Your mother, too. We are not in the same class of people at all. Please, take this humble peace offering as the closest I can get to an apology for my formerly horrible ways.”

“I hate cupcakes,” Sash sneers.

“I made it just for you, sister,” he pleads.

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. Then she turns back to the mirror. “Throw that garbage out.”

His temper is starting to rise. “I worked hard on this cupcake. For you.”

“And I don’t want it, so take it out with the trash where it and you both belong.”

He can’t keep up the façade any longer. In a moment, he’s on top of her, the vanity chair toppled, and he’s shoving the pastry into her mouth the way he might use the knife. “JUST EAT IT, YOU LITTLE BITCH!” he screams. “EAT YOUR FUCKING DESSERT THAT I MADE FOR YOU WITH LOVE!”

She squirms. She very nearly screams. And then, when the icing takes effect, she goes silent.

He stands. He’s got poison icing on his clothing. That will need a change. “Your mother was right,” he says, forcing a smile. “I am a murderer.”

* * *

Charles is easier. He knew it would be.

He catches the blond in a hallway, clings to his jacket, gives him pleading eyes. “I’ve been thirsty for so long,” he says with faux desperation. Or is it real, because he needs Charles to do this for him?

“Then get some water out of the sink,” Charles says.

Of course. Because Charles is an idiot.

“No,” he says hurriedly. “I am not thirsty for water.”

Before Charles can ask what that’s supposed to mean, he’s pressed the blond up against the wall, lips to lips.

After a sigh of contentment, Charles turns his head away; “I thought you didn’t want to do this with someone who was like your sister.”

“Sister, no. Brother? Well, that’s different.”

He lets himself have a little fun. His hands wander the way they normally can’t in public when he has to keep up appearances. He hears Charles mutter, “Fuck, you’re ugly, but I’m desperate,” and the insult only makes his fervor fierier.

He insists they take it to the kitchen for some privacy. Locks the door. Lays Charles down on the counter salaciously. Like this is a homoerotic bodice-ripper. And oh, for a moment he is tempted.

But Charles isn’t his type anyway.

He reaches for the decanter. There’s a bowl of grapes nearby. The old cliché. Feed him by hand. Let him suck the poison off his stepbrother’s fingers. Except now, only now does he realized that he used it all on Sasha’s pastry. Why didn’t he notice that before?

Or maybe it was fate that he didn’t.

“What are you waiting for?” Charles asks breathlessly.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “But I’m ready now. I swear, I am ready – “

The kitchen knife is caught up in his hand and plunges directly down into Charles’ chest. Then several more times, for good measure, and surprisingly, it’s so much more satisfying than anything he could’ve gotten from the man sexually.

* * *

Grace had said, last time, that if she asked for cherries, there had better be cherries. This time, she didn’t ask for cherries. But nevertheless, he makes sure to brush them delicately with a cherry glaze.

Nothing tastes as delicious as irony.


End file.
